


Take a Chance

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sherlock, Jealous John, Lesbian Irene, Love Confessions, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Relationship Advice, Stubborn Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-23 09:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: Sherlock takes John's advice to have a night of passion with Irene. It doesn't quite go as expected.





	Take a Chance

**Author's Note:**

> IMO, the only redeeming feature of S4 was The Lying Detective. But even that had its issues. I particularly didn't like the bit of dialogue where John encourages Sherlock to go out there and get his woman (please leave Irene alone and let her be gay in peace) and the horrible scene where John beats the shit out of Sherlock (and doesn’t apologise??). I wrote this as an attempt to placate myself re: all of the aforementioned mess. Enjoy.

**Happy Birthday. xx**

**Thank you.  –SH**

**Did you get my gift?**

**Far too thoughtful. -SH**

**Does it fit? I admit I was a bit bold.**

**Haven’t tried, won’t be trying, but by the looks of it—dubious. -SH**

**Well don’t just look at it, you stupid man.**

**I’ve thought of a better gift.  –SH**

**Oh?**

**Dinner. –SH**

**That’s my line.**

**I’m quite starved. –SH**

**Good lord, one would think it’s MY birthday today.**

**Well? -SH**

**Yes I said yes I will Yes!**

**Hm. Is that a yes? -SH**

**It’d be a dream to see your pretty face in the flesh again.**

**When? -SH**

**I’ll be back in town in three days, so let’s say Saturday evening. Location will be forthcoming. Looking forward to it so very much. xxx**

\--

Seated at the bar is the antithesis of Irene Adler as Sherlock knows her.

She’s hunched over a glass of brandy, which she holds between folded hands, but only momentarily, soon raising it to her lips and taking a generous sip. She places the glass down and, by the minutest quiver of her lip, Sherlock can tell she’s utterly repulsed by it. Her wig is a dark blond pixie and she’s wearing crooked thick-rimmed glasses, a shapeless, untucked plaid shirt, nondescript trousers and Savile Row-grade black oxfords (can’t possibly resist a bit of flash). There’s some plumpness in her normally strong and square, high-cheekboned face. She’s made her crow’s-feet and forehead wrinkles more pronounced, thinned out her lips, and her chin juts out a bit more, the tip of her nose just a smidge more protuberant than usual.

If disguise is an art, Irene is one of its great masters.

Sherlock sits gently on the stool beside her, careful to not upset his fragile ribs.

“And whose company shall I be enjoying tonight?” is what he opens with, aiming for casual and suave.

Irene takes one look at him and says, “Dear  _god,_  you look horrific.”

“…Can I get you something, sir?”

 “Whiskey Sour, please,” Sherlock says to the bartender, who’s clearly heard Irene’s dramatic proclamation and looks awkwardly eager for an excuse to be preoccupied. He hurries away to prepare the drink.

Irene turns bodily toward Sherlock, perches her prescription-less glasses low on not-her-nose, inspective, leans in and brushes a stray fringe from his eye. Sherlock flinches at the feather-light touch of her nails on his skin.

“Your eye. And…”

Her finger travels down and ghosts over the stitches above his brow. She tut-tuts disapprovingly, then leans back and resituates her glasses. Sherlock waits for her to make her deductions; she’s slower than usual tonight.

The bartender delivers Sherlock’s drink just as Irene twigs it.

“Oh, darling, I just can’t fathom it,” Irene gushes. “Why on earth would John do such a heinous thing to you?” Irene reaches out and cups his cheek with unnecessary reverence, like it’s made of the finest bone china and would shatter if she were to add the slightest of pressure. “To your gorgeous face? I could kill him.”

 _I deserved it_ _I killed Mary I promised_ _him_ _I’d protect her_ threatens to be voiced all at once, but Sherlock won’t allow it, shoves it back into the dark recesses from whence it came. John, that hateful day at the morgue with Culverton Smith, are the very last topics Sherlock cares to discuss or recall to mind.

He shoves Irene’s arm away and immediately regrets it, the sharp movement causing a dull throb of pain in his side, unconsciously touches the bruised spot and sucks in a breath between his teeth, annoyed at the pain, at himself, (unfairly) at Irene. He picks up his Whiskey Sour, downs it in one, and smacks the empty glass atop the bar as his stomach roils at the intrusion of the alcohol.

Irene’s eyeing the side of his torso with suspicion.

Sherlock’s here to do one thing, and he’d very much like to get it started and over with. He sits up straight and slides into character (that is, a virile, posturing man on the prowl).

“Look at me,” he growls, pitching his voice as low and deep as it can go.

Irene’s eyes snap to meet his, seems to be taken off-guard.

He leans in close, sitting on the edge of the stool, and she mirrors him, hanging raptly on his next words.

“Your room,” he says. “Now.”

Irene looks intrigued as she gives him a raking once-over, then nods once decisively, throws out her arm for the bartender.

“Check, please!”

\--

Irene leads him to her capacious, no doubt expensive suite, where the King-sized bed is neatly made, and two sidetables flank it, unopened wine bottles— _Chateau Lafite_ _Rothschild_ —sitting atop each of them. A Versace travel bag is tucked away in the corner of the room, near the window, and Sherlock knows it’s full of Irene’s toys.

Out of Irene’s sight, Sherlock suppresses a nascent panic that’s steadily building with a few deep, grounding breaths. He fixes his expression into a practiced, impassive mask, moves toward the bed, and sits on the edge beside an expectant-looking Irene. He doesn’t look at her but he can feel her eyes on him. She places her hand on his thigh. The warmth of her hand bleeds through his trousers, and it’s far less comforting than it should be.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” Irene presses a soft kiss to his cheek; her lips are dry. “However you want it, you just name it, I’ll do it. I want to make you feel good.”

It’s that easy, isn’t it? He can do this. Men and women do it all the time. It's been done for millennia. He can learn to derive some pleasure from it; it’s merely an effort of putting mind over matter. He’ll need to reciprocate of course—that’s much easier, is simply a studied practice of how the other party responds to various stimuli. Besides, if he doesn’t take this chance, it’ll never happen again. No one has ever been “in love” with him before and will never be again. He’d be remiss not to take advantage of this, to see how it feels—to see how incredibly, life-changingly profound it was meant to be. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.

John’s right.

“But first,” Irene is saying, and suddenly Sherlock’s eyes are being shrouded by something cushiony and black—a blindfold.

Sherlock goes very still.

“It’ll be like I’m not even here,” she says.

Sherlock tears the blindfold off, and goggles at her. “ _Excuse_  me?”

Irene’s hand is splayed across her chest in affront.

“You don’t want to see me while I fuck you, suck your cock, do whatever else it is you want me to do to you.”

She says it so directly, like it’s an irrevocable fact.

It is, in truth, completely on the nose, and Sherlock wouldn't expect any less from Irene.

“That’s absolutely absurd,” he lies.

Irene cocks her head at him, and offers him a tight, patronising smile. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“Clearly, we’ve had a misunderstanding. What’s the point—why the _hell_ wouldn’t I want to see you?”

Irene gives him a withering look. "You must be joking.”

This is not how Sherlock had foreseen the proceedings. A blindfold doesn’t exactly scream romance—scream _love_  to him. A blindfold is decidedly not the catalyst for a healthy, rewarding relationship. Sherlock supposes people have their sexual peccadilloes, but for a first foray into a relationship? It’s a bit disconcerting.

But this is Irene Adler, not just anyone. Perhaps this is her quirk. Sherlock will need to learn her quirks.

“That’s not…“ Sherlock gestures his hand vaguely, unable to find the proper words. His eyes flit over her face searchingly. “What about  _you_?" 

Irene barks out a surprised laugh. “I couldn’t possibly care less, darling. It’s all in a day’s work. Though it’s not really work—it’s you.”

Is he meant to make any sense of that? 

Irene’s studying him with a sense of bewilderment, almost like she doesn’t recognise him.

“But how kind of you to be so concerned. Who are you and what have you done with my Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks at her, at a loss.

“We needn’t do this if you’ve changed your mind. I know it took a lot for you to ask in the first place. There’s always another day.”

Anger surges within Sherlock, unheeded. “We needn’t do this?” he parrots scathingly. He springs off the bed, ignoring any resulting pain, and begins to pace the width of the bed.

“’Let’s have dinner, Sherlock,’” he mimics Irene in a high-pitched nasally tone, “‘Sherlock, I’m not hungry. Let’s have dinner.’ And every variation thereof. Innuendo after innuendo. Tiresome, obnoxious, trite. Haven’t you wanted this?  _Me_? All this time? I’ve endured years of you doggedly pursuing me, being  _madly in love_  with me. We shouldn’t waste this opportunity while we have it. Others aren’t so lucky. It’ll make us  _whole_ , this. And you have me right here, right now.”

At the end of his monologue, he flings his arms out as if to say _here I am, have at me_ and fixes Irene with a challenging glare.

Irene gawps at him.

Then she bursts into laughter.

She laughs and laughs and laughs.

Sherlock is at first a bit confused. Slightly angry. But, most of all, embarrassed.

Irene begins to settle down, wiping away a tear of mirth. One look at Sherlock’s face causes her to sober up. “Oh, my. You’re serious.”

Sherlock is rarely at a loss for words. This is one of those rare moments.

“You truly think that I am—oh my god.” She covers her hand over her mouth, scandalised, and looks at him with such pity that Sherlock feels ashamed. “Sherlock, my angel, you’re stunning and sexy, it’s true, but you must understand that I was playing with you."

Sherlock blinks several times, rapid fire.

"You're fun to tease. You get so ruffled; it's the cutest thing."

It’s becoming shockingly apparent that they have vastly different ideas of fun.

"Also, small point of contention, but I’m really quite gay."

He’d known this but he (selfishly) hadn't stopped to think that it would matter. He had convinced himself that Irene wanted him desperately. That she was obsessed with him. That he was the exception to the rule. And all evidence had pointed to it. Hadn't it?

_Idiot idiot IDIOT._

“And, surely, I need not remind you that you are as well.”

Sherlock buries his face in his hands and lets out a loud groan of frustration.

Irene tut-tuts sadly. "Come here, darling.”

Sherlock moves dejectedly to the bed, and perches himself back on the edge. When he turns his head, Irene immediately presses her lips against his, and when she pulls back Sherlock watches her in a daze.

"I do love you, you know,” she says, watching him carefully. “But not like that, for goodness sake. You conceited bastard.” Her eyes fall to his lips. “And it's too bad: you have such lovely lips. I would kiss them all day long.”

“I need to—“ Sherlock starts to get up. “I should—”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Irene cuts in emphatically, and she has a fistful of Sherlock’s shirtsleeve. Sherlock can feel a slight, warning tug. He remains awkwardly half-sitting, half-standing until she says, “Sit down.”

Sherlock sits down. Irene pets his hair.

Sherlock looks at the floor, feeling irredeemably guilty. “I am…sorry.”

“Don't be," Irene says. "You're positively rubbish at this. It's not logical, love, and it's not your expertise.”

Sherlock thinks he should be offended. 

"Nothing to be offended about. It's a tricky beast.”

Sherlock wishes he were anywhere but here, in this hotel room, with Irene.

“You’re staying right here with me,” Irene says firmly. “In fact, I think we should have a cuddle.”

Sherlock looks at her sidelong.

“Don’t look at me like that, you grouch. First, I’m taking off the clothes and the makeup; they’re of no use and, honestly, do me no favours.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.

Irene winks, gets up, and glides into the bathroom.

\--

Irene’s back to looking like herself: she’s removed her makeup and changed into the lush hotel robe, leaving it loosely tied and nothing left to the imagination.

Sherlock’s lying flat on his back on the bed, fully clothed, hands clasped over his stomach, and he’s frowning and glaring at the black screen of the telly, as if it were its fault that this evening was such a spectacular cock-up. Irene’s lying on her side, pressed up against him, head propped up by her arm, walking the fingers of her other hand jauntily across the breadth of Sherlock’s chest.

“Having fun?” Irene asks.

“No,” Sherlock drawls.

“Why don’t you change into a robe? Take off your clothes? Get comfortable.”

“No.”

“Shall I pour you some wine? Would you like to get pissed?”

“Nope,” Sherlock says, popping the plosive.

Irene sighs long-sufferingly. “You’re being such a bore. Talk to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles grimly. “And what would you like to talk about, Irene?” he asks in a faux-cheery tone.

“I’d like to talk about you, me, and sex.”

“There’s nothing new under the sun,” he murmurs.

“Who put the silly little idea in your head?”

“Why do you presume someone gave me the idea?” Sherlock volleys back defensively.

“Because I know you.”

“You don’t know me that well,” Sherlock bites back.

Irene pushes herself up onto her elbow and leans over him, her robe falling open, allowing Sherlock to get an eyeful of her breasts. He looks up to find her staring down at him with an unwavering intensity.

“But I do,” she says, and the words carry a distinct, confident authority. Sherlock defiantly stares back.

They remain that way, at a stalemate, until she capitulates, leaning back. She brightens. “Ooh, I want to deduce who! Now _that_ will be fun.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise.

“Let’s see,” Irene says, tapping on her lip musingly. “It was your birthday.”

“Scintillating genius,” Sherlock deadpans.

“Your mobile still has that fun text alert noise when I send you a message—someone must have heard it and knew it was me. Only your brother and John know about me. Mycroft Holmes would hardly encourage you to have sex—and with me, of all people. He thinks you’re afraid of sex, and rather hates me. Easy. John. Of course. John thought you and I were sending each other love notes and he got jealous. He always was so jealous of me. His wife died recently, he’s raw and sensitive, feels like he should have done more with her. Always feeling sorry for himself, always blaming himself for everything. He told you to see me, do what he couldn’t with his wife, that is, start a long and happy romance before the chance is gone and cherish it.”

“John was not jealous,” Sherlock says, latching onto the only thing he can confidently refute.

“If he can’t have you, then he wants you to be happy with someone else. It’s a textbook romantic trope.” She considers Sherlock. “I know you’re pants at all of this—but did you really not recognise that?”

“Your reasoning is specious," Sherlock says acerbically. "Yes, it was John who suggested I pursue you. But your interpretation, his jealousy and his supposed self-sacrifice of pushing me into your arms, it’s just that. Interpretation. Not fact.”

She shakes her head solemnly, folds herself into a cross-legged position and places her hand lightly on his chest.

“Listen to me carefully.” Her eyes skate over Sherlock’s stitches and her mouth twists with distaste. “Though perhaps he has some…anger issues that he needs to work through on his own, I know that man loves you."

Sherlock clears his throat. "Yes, well. For some inexplicable reason, he values my friendship."

"And you value his."

"Of course," Sherlock says earnestly.

The silence between them stretches.

Irene gives him a devious grin, and she says, “You also value his cock.”

Sherlock shoots her a look. “Must you always talk of nothing else but sex?"

Irene’s eyes gleam. "Must you always be such a big girl’s blouse?"

“Shut up,” he says petulantly.

Irene cups her ear. “I don’t hear an objection,” she says, enjoying herself far too much. "The gentleman doth not protest."

Sherlock’s lip twitches, then its corner stretches slowly upward. "Frankly, there's nothing to protest." 

Irene claps her hands together, eyes shining. "I'm so proud of you I could just cry. Tell me more. I want to hear all of your filthy fantasies.”

“Don’t push it,” Sherlock says, amused.

“You need to tell John.”

Sherlock starts. “ _What_?”

“Not your fantasies, you idiot—that comes later. That you love him and want him.”

Sherlock snorts derisively. “Oh, yes, that’ll go over well. ‘So sorry your wife’s just died—now what do you think about _me_?’”

“Precisely. She’s dead. He’s going to move on eventually. If he hasn’t already. From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t a particularly lovely person, was she?”

“I liked Mary,” Sherlock says quietly.

“That’s nice. But she doesn’t care that you liked her, nor does she care that you want to bonk her husband. Because she’s dead. I swear to god, Sherlock, if you’ve not thrown yourself at that man because of some odd guilt—“

“ _Honestly_ , Irene. Even I am aware of the social protocol to be followed in such a situation. It would be unthoughtful to proposition someone so soon after their significant other’s death.”

“Curious choice of word, ‘significant.’ Did he really love her all that much?”

“He had a child with her. They were going to raise a child together. That’s quite a declaration if there was any.”

“Unplanned, you said. And what do you call what you’re doing with John and his daughter?”

Sherlock laughs wryly. “Surely you’re not implying I currently have a hand in raising his daughter simply because we all of us share the same living space.”

Irene looks smug. “You’re the one who said it. Now hit me with another.”

Sherlock sputters. “I’ve…been horrible to him. I’ve lied to him.”

“Oh, please. He’s been horrible to you, possibly more so. Keep it coming.”

“John is not attracted to men.”

"Don’t know that for certain."

"Once again, Rosamund Watson is concrete enough evidence."

"Pish posh. My male colleagues have had married male clients who fathered oodles of children but also craved the touch of a man for as long as they could remember."

“Don’t be ridiculous. John isn’t sexually repressed.”

“Not my point. I think he may be bisexual."

"Where’s the _proof_ , for god’s sake,” Sherlock grits out. “I’ve known John for seven excruciating years and not once has he had a relationship with a man or expressed _any_ interest—”

“Do you see the way he acts when you have the attention of a woman? Or simply the way he looks at you?”

“I think the pertinent emotion is confusion, for both circumstances.”

Irene rolls her eyes. “Something more concrete, then. I’ve just the thing: have been saving it for a rainy day.”

Irene retrieves her mobile, scrolls through it for a good while, and shoves it in Sherlock's face.

On screen is a photograph Sherlock had taken at John's wedding and sent to Irene with the text _SOS. DREADFULLY bored. Look at all of them being happy and sociable. It’s indecent._ Framed in the centre of the photograph is John and Major James Sholto, heads bowed, bodies angled toward each other. John’s face is open, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and staring up at the Major, who’s been caught mid-sentence.

“Look at the body language,” Irene says. “Those faces. Tells the story, I think.”

Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. Sherlock had indeed been bored in that moment, and saw that John was otherwise engaged, a prime moment for a photo of him, so he’d taken it without paying attention to the Major.

“This is…” Sherlock says slowly, eyes flitting over the photo desperately. Uncertain. “Confirmation bias.”

He locks her mobile and throws it aside.

“My god, you’re impossibly stubborn,” Irene says, but it’s teasingly affectionate. “But lucky for you, I’ve an idea for the final proof.”

\--

John takes one step into the sitting room and freezes.

“Hello, John.”

Irene Adler—looking about five years younger than he’d last seen her, clad in all-black clothes, long black hair, dark, smoky eyeshadow, piercings (nose, three in the ears, bottom lip)—is fluttering her lashes at him from the sofa, practically clinging to Sherlock, who is sitting beside her, arm slung proprietarily behind her. Her hand is resting on Sherlock’s chest.

"Irene,” John greets flatly. "You're looking very alive."

"You flatter me,” she purrs.

"Not trying to."

"Me-ow.”

John looks between Irene and Sherlock suspiciously. The two barmy brainboxes must be up to something. But what?

John doesn’t get a chance to think of _what_ , since his attention diverts to Irene’s hand sliding slowly down Sherlock’s shirtfront, his stomach, then skittering back up. When her hand stops, at the opening V of his shirt, he snaps his attention back to Irene’s face.

She winks at him.

John’s anger spikes. “What’re you doing in our flat? And why do you look like that?”

Irene nuzzles into Sherlock and kisses his temple. "Sherlock and I have a hot date.”

John casts a querying look at Sherlock. Sherlock merely raises a brow: _Problem?,_ it says.

“He took your advice,” Irene adds. “To profess his feelings to me.”

“Sherlock never takes my advice.”

“Well he did this time, and now we’re boffing like two randy teenagers. Don’t you think that’s grand?”

John doesn’t know why he can’t believe it. It makes complete sense. John had encouraged Sherlock to go after her, after all; he knew it made sense. Sherlock must feel something akin to love for Irene Adler. Mustn’t he? She is his equal. She’s clever (far cleverer and far more attractive and sophisticated than John). Irene likes him—rather, she is in love with him. Perhaps a little bit obsessed with him. And then, unbeknownst to John until a few days ago, Sherlock had gone and saved her life. He cared for her. There was obviously something there.

Perhaps he simply doesn’t want to believe it.

John had been upset about Mary, upset about everything he’d squandered with her. It’d been a heat-of-the moment thing, when he’d encouraged Sherlock to seek Irene out and not to waste any more time. He hadn’t ever expected Sherlock to actually listen to him.

And now he’s absolutely, irrationally, envious.

“Isn’t it grand, Sherlock?” Irene says.

“It is enormously fulfilling,” Sherlock replies.

“We’re finally living our truth,” Irene says to John. She’s smiling like the cat that got the cream, and John can feel pinpricks of irritation transforming into anger. “And I have you to thank for that.”

“You’re having me on,” John says sharply. He can’t quite forget the Janine incident; perhaps Sherlock’s decided to use John’s advice to begin a relationship with Irene as a cover-up, to convince John of something—maybe he’s on a case that involves getting close to Irene.

But would she really fall for all that? She’s much too clever.

“What on earth would make you think that?” Irene asks.

“Because it’s you two!”

“No need to yell,” Irene says, sounding pleased.

“Watson is sleeping,” Sherlock reminds John.

“I’m not yelling!” John says, very loudly indeed, then winces. He lowers his voice and repeats, “I’m not.”

Irene’s hand travels down Sherlock’s torso again, but this time boldly skates his groin, then slides sideways, finding home on his hipbone.

John can’t wrest his gaze from Irene’s hand. She slides her hand forward, the tip of her middle finger finger giving a light, experimental stroke of the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, causing Sherlock to squirm a bit. John licks his lips, wanting more. It’s pitiful, really, that such a tiny thing can set him off. He could attribute it to the lack of sex he’s been having but he knows, in reality, it’s about _Sherlock_. It's always been about Sherlock.

“See. Just look at him,” Irene says, and her hand begins its languorous, teasing ascent back up. “It’s killing him that he can’t touch.”

John belatedly gets the hint that Irene’s referring to him and looks up hastily, guilty. He can feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck and doesn’t (can’t) meet either Irene or Sherlock’s eyes, looks instead at the wall behind the sofa.

No one speaks.

The taps of the bathroom sink runs. John forgets he’s embarrassed and is immediately on guard, alert.

“Is someone else in the flat?” he says.

Footsteps sound down the hall and the Someone Else, a beautiful, young woman dressed in the same vein as Irene, all doom and gloom and prodigious piercings, enters the sitting room. Irene stands up.

“John, this is Sabrina. Sabrina, John Watson.”

John stares at Sabrina, confused. “Hello?”

She merely gives him a nod of acknowledgment, looking bored.

“Sabrina and I are seeing each other,” Irene says, walking around the coffee table and joining Sabrina at her side. Irene snakes an arm around Sabrina’s waist. “Quite a lot of each other.” Sabrina smirks, and Irene runs a hand up through Sabrina’s long hair, a near simulacrum of Irene’s wig. “Aren’t I lucky?”

John looks from Sabrina, to Irene, to Sherlock, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. “Am I missing something here?”

“When are you not?” Irene says.

Sherlock snorts. "Good one."

“Oi!” John says indignantly.

“…Sorry,” Sherlock says, chastened.

“Well, we have to dash,” Irene says with a smirk. “Wait for me outside, gorgeous?” She directs this to Sabrina. They share a brief kiss before Sabrina goes on ahead of Irene, out into the hallway. Before she crosses the threshold, Irene takes hold of John’s bicep in a vice grip, squeezing it hard. She whispers hotly in his ear, “If you ever dare to hurt Sherlock Holmes again, I will hire someone to murder you in your sleep.”

John’s blood turns to ice.

“Toodle-pip, boys,” Irene says to the room at large, blows a kiss to Sherlock over her shoulder, then leaves.

John whirls around. “Going to explain all that, then?” he asks, perhaps a bit too roughly.

“It was to prove a point.”

“What bloody point?”

“That Irene isn’t interested in me romantically. Or sexually.”

“Yep, got that much.”

Sherlock looks guilelessly at John. “And I’m not interested in being in a relationship with her. In fact, more generally, I am not…interested in women.”

John purses his lips, taking the new information in. After all these years, Sherlock has never been so forthright about something personal. Sherlock’s always shied away from divulging anything about himself. So this—this is new territory. He’s not surprised that Sherlock’s gay. He’s more surprised Sherlock’s told him, even if it was executed in a backwards, overwrought way. John supposes he shouldn’t have expected anything less from Sherlock.

John had felt envious of Irene before. Now he feels nothing of the sort. Instead he feels a great rush of giddy, childish excitement at the prospect of being able to touch Sherlock like Irene had, to do far more, and for Sherlock to like it—

It’s a presumptuous thought. Sherlock likes men, but that doesn’t mean he’d be interested in John. Why would he? Why should he even give John the time of day? After everything John had done to him?  

John quickly realises he should say something before Sherlock gets the wrong impression from his silence.

“Right,” John says. “Great. I mean, not _great_ —well it is great—Christ. I mean, I’m just trying to say I’m glad you feel comfortable telling me.”

John smiles. Sherlock doesn’t smile back, but he looks expectant. Expectant of what?

John takes a step closer to Sherlock; Sherlock looks open, vulnerable. Anxious. He takes another step, heart thrumming.

Before he can go any further, cross the line, Irene's words return in full force.

_‘If you ever dare to hurt Sherlock Holmes again—‘_

John makes fists and digs his nails into the flesh of the heel of his palm and has a sudden, overwhelming urge to be alone, away from Sherlock. 

He jabs a thumb behind his shoulder and takes a step backwards. “I’ve, uh, got to go check on Rosie.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, face falling back into its typical impassivity.

John flees.

\--

**?**

**It’s been a tedious three days. Have been tip-toeing around each other. Nary a peep from him. Perhaps we’ve scared him. –SH**

**No, men are just insufferable. Be a big boy and talk to him.  Tell him more, let him know you’re willing to be open with him, that you trust him. We know he wants you, darling. You saw him. He was practically drooling.**

**I was right about that, by the way. In case you forgot.**

**Now, TALK.**

\--

John’s on the sofa watching telly, bottle-feeding Rosie, who’s nestled in the crook of his arm. Sherlock is watching the two of them intently from his armchair.

“At Eton,” Sherlock begins, apropos of nothing. “That’s when I discovered I was attracted to men.”

John nearly drops Rosie’s bottle, and Rosie makes an annoyed noise at the inconvenience.

“Shit. Sorry, love,” John says, righting the bottle. Rosie continues suckling blithely. John glances over at Sherlock. “…You were saying?”

“But I didn’t much act on it. I had one dalliance in university and decided it—all of it—was terrible and vowed to never bother with it again.”

John nods sagely, as if he were there, as if he had understood.

“And, uh. What about now?” John asks, keeping his eyes on Rosie. “Now, would you ever want to try again?”

“With someone I trusted, perhaps.” Sherlock stares at John, hoping against hope John will understand his implication. “Someone who could tolerate me, at the very least.”

John huffs out a laugh and it makes Sherlock quirk a small, triumphant smile. Sherlock waits for more. _Anything_ more. But the moment dies when Rosie starts coughing. John removes the bottle from her mouth just as milk-spittle projectiles onto his shirt.

“S’all right, you’re okay sweetheart,” John coos at Rosie as her violent coughing spell begins to dwindle. He dabs at her mouth with his shirt.

Once she’s settled down, John begins to get up.

“No, don’t. I’ve got it.” Sherlock gets up to retrieve a few paper towels from the kitchen, then proffers them over to John.

“Cheers. Sorry I’m a bit—“ John says, glancing meaningfully at his hands, which are each full of baby and bottle. “Would you mind?”

Sherlock hesitates, but perches himself on the coffee table and leans over to wipe off the mess on John’s shirt. Sherlock wipes off a fleck of milk from John’s neck, and when he looks up, John’s watching him with a peculiar dazed expression, eyelids heavy. 

"Remember when I told you to take a chance with Irene?" he says, swaying inward, toward Sherlock. "Go all-in, before she's gone?"

Sherlock can't bear to think about that at a time like this. "Yes, but what--"

"I'm taking my chance now."

He leans in and kisses Sherlock.

Sherlock’s breath skitters in an embarrassing gasp at the initial touch of their lips. Heart pounding, he kisses back, pressing deep into it, like he has been starved for it. Rosie makes a desperate sound from John’s arm.

John breaks the kiss within seconds. His eyes are closed. Slowly, he runs his tongue over his lips. Tasting Sherlock on him.

“John,” Sherlock breathes shakily.

John opens his eyes and glances at the stitches above Sherlock’s eyebrow and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock repeats incredulously, like he doesn’t understand the word. 

John places Rosie’s bottle aside and looks squarely at Sherlock. “You shouldn’t trust me to be a good man to you. I cheated on Mary and I—“ he cuts himself off and looks down at Rosie. “I hurt you. I can never forgive myself for that.”

“I can,” Sherlock says, the words tumbling out in a nervous jumble. “I have. You mustn’t castigate yourself. You loved Mary, and I understood. You did it for her.”

John smiles sadly at Rosie, who’s now staring at Sherlock, wide-eyed, fascinated. “I don’t deserve you.” John sniffs. “I don’t deserve…this.” He kisses Rosie on her forehead, then looks up at Sherlock with tired eyes. Quietly, he amends, “Us.”

“You are infuriating,” Sherlock says, and John looks shocked. “You deserve everything, the very least me.”

John gives Sherlock a crooked smile. “You and Mary, god. You give and she—she gave me far more credit than I’m due.”

“John," Sherlock says, watching John with sincere intensity. "What's done is done. You are only human--but also extraordinary. I have _never_ in my life met someone quite like you.”

John shakes his head, unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything to dispute it. Instead, he says, “Sorry, I need to--” He stands up and hefts Rosie so she’s resting her head on his shoulder and speaks to her in a low, soothing murmur as he carts her away. Sherlock listens to the sound of his footsteps ascending the stairs. The sound of the crib gate being slid down, put back in place. Minutes pass far too slowly--Sherlock can't bear it, the waiting, the anticipation--he's crawling out of his skin--and eventually footsteps sound back down the stairs and John appears, alone, seats himself back on the sofa, smacks his hands on his thighs and rubs them—up and down—twice. He sniffs and slides forward so he's sitting on the edge of the sofa, until his and Sherlock's knees are touching, then opens his legs: an invitation. Sherlock moves to the very edge of the coffee table, so he's closer, so his knees fill the space made.

John looks at Sherlock directly.

“You really want this?"

“Without question," Sherlock says immediately. Eagerly.

John jerks a nod in the direction of the stairs leading to his room. “It’s a package deal, you know.”

"Yes, of course," he says, and hates how unsteady his voice sounds. The words leave his mouth in a blur, "I'll do anything you need me to do. I can't promise I'll be particularly stellar at any of it, but I am a rather fast learner and have the greatest of motivations."

John stares blankly at Sherlock, and Sherlock wonders if he's said something wrong.

John's eyes have become suspiciously watery. "Christ," he says in a rush of breath. He scrubs a hand down his face and lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. " _Jesus Christ_."

Sherlock, feeling frenetic and at a loss, moves to the sofa, sitting beside John. "I'm sorry," he offers.

"No," John says, turning to Sherlock and cupping his cheek. Sherlock turns his face into it (warm and and callused and John all over). "No, I'm just in awe. You're...incredible." Sherlock smiles--allows himself to beam with the praise. 

Sherlock closes the gap between them--because he can't possibly waste any more time not kissing John--and ends up easing John down until he's supine on the sofa, straddling him and pressing him down.

Sherlock kisses down John's jaw, and feels it moving as John says, “Christ, Sherlock, you've no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Regrettably, hadn't the faintest idea," Sherlock agrees--to which John snort-laughs. "But how," Sherlock slurs in the midst of dotting kissing down the side of John's neck, "Did _she_ know?” 

“What's that?”

"Hm?" Sherlock says distractedly.         

“You said—“

Sherlock diverts his path to kiss John on the mouth, rendering him silent. 

\--

**Well, well, well. I haven’t heard from you in a while. I like to think you’ve not been able to keep your hands off him long enough to text me.**

**I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re referring to. –SH**

**I’ve been on tenterhooks. I simply must have confirmation. I’ve always taken your little doctor for a bit of a rough sort of fellow but also the kind of man who will pepper you with kisses and tell you you’re beautiful in the afterglow. I’m right, aren’t I.**

**I’ve not said thank you, and I suppose it’s long-past due. Thank you. –SH**

**Whatever for?**

**Everything. –SH**

**I owe you my life, darling. It was the very least I could do.**

**It wasn’t the least for me. –SH**

**You besotted fool.**

**How dare you call me a fool. –SH**

**Might I ask you just one question? Would you promise to answer?**

**If I must. -SH**

**Is it enormously fulfilling?**

**Hilarious. –SH**

**Yes, in fact. It is. Enormous. –SH**

**Ly. -SH**

**OH I adore this new Sherlock. xx**

**New? -SH**

**I’m so happy for you. You know I’ll always be there for you if you need me.**

**And I, you. –SH**

**Stop it. I’m squiffy and you’re making me emotional. Not a good mix.**

**How embarrassing for you. -SH**

**Bastard. xx**

**XOXO!! –SH**

**Author's Note:**

> I may have made Irene a bit omniscient here. Let's pretend Sherlock's been texting her a lot....
> 
> Also, a 'big girl's blouse' immediately became my favorite idiom when I discovered it. For anyone who doesn't know, it can be an affectionately teasing way to describe someone (a man, typically) who is being weak/wimpy.


End file.
